


finally purified (or whatever that means)

by goodmourningdove



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fix-It, Fluff, Living Together, M/M, Nana Tozier's Peanut Butter Fudge, but like post-fixit, this is pure saccharine indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmourningdove/pseuds/goodmourningdove
Summary: “Just go stir the fudge so it doesn’t stick and burn to the bottom of the pot. I’m gonna go grab some bandaids. Don’t—and I know this is gonna be hard for you—don’t hurt yourself while I’m gone or you’re losing your cooking privileges."“Not a punishment, Eds,” Richie called after him as Eddie scurried to the half bath down the hall. “I’d love to be your studio audience.”Eddie returned to the kitchen and grabbed the molten-sugar-coated spoon that Richie had been gesturing with and set it down. He kept ahold of Richie’s hand to carefully place a couple of the antibacterial bandaids that Eddie got all horned up about.“Be my Alton Brown,” Richie said, looking down at Eddie as he secured the bandages. “My Rachel Ray. My very own, uh, lady from Semi-Homemade.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 80





	finally purified (or whatever that means)

If you aren’t getting second degree burns, you’re not making fudge.

Or, at least, that’s what Richie tried to tell Eddie as he let Eddie grab him by the wrist and shove his hand under the running tap, cursing at him and nervously checking over his shoulder at the still boiling pot of melted butter and sugar left unattended on the stove. 

“There is no reason,” Eddie said, “ _no reason_ anyone should be losing a layer of skin in my kitchen.”

“Hey, _our_ kitchen. And it’s _my_ family’s secret peanut butter fudge recipe. The burns are just part of the process. It’s on the first copy, you can even dig up Nana Tozier and check, I’m like eighty-seven percent sure she was buried with it.”

“Your fingers hurt?”

“Uh, yeah, why?”

“You’re rambling.” Richie’s number one skill was talking to avoid anything uncomfortable, physical pain included. Eddie would say he’d known Richie long enough to know that, but it was so obvious that it was pretty much Richard Tozier 101.

“Your pot’s gonna boil over,” Richie said. Eddie jumped, swinging back toward the stove to find everything fine. He swatted at Richie’s arm.

“Asshole,” he said, and Richie chuckled. “Go stir that so it doesn’t stick and burn to the bottom of the pot. I’m gonna go grab some bandaids. Don’t—and I know this is gonna be hard for you—don’t hurt yourself while I’m gone or you’re losing your kitchen privileges.”

“Not a punishment, Eds,” Richie called after him as Eddie scurried to the half bath down the hall. “I’d love to be your studio audience.” 

Eddie returned to the kitchen and grabbed the molten-sugar-coated spoon that Richie had been gesturing with and set it down. He kept ahold of Richie’s hand to carefully place a couple of the antibacterial bandaids that Eddie got all horned up about.

“Be my Alton Brown,” Richie said, looking down at Eddie as he secured the bandages. “My Rachel Ray. My very own, uh, lady from Semi-Homemade.”

Eddie dropped his hand and gathered up the bandaid wrappers.

“Semi-homemade? Like the Tozier Family Fudge?” he asked, crossing to toss the wrappers in the garbage. Richie followed after him.

“Hey, no, fuck you, don’t besmirch my family legacy, don’t take a shit on Nana Tozier.”

“Gross, I’m not— The fudge has got marshmallow fluff in it, Rich, that’s not—“

“My grandmother brought that recipe back with her from the old country—“

“Your grandmother was from upstate New York,” Eddie countered.

“—had to take an oxen to and from the Hannaford’s with the money she scrimped and saved from crocheting baby bonnets—“

“She went to Purchase, she was an art teacher.”

“Well, that’s just not true.” Correct. It wasn’t. Eddie never met Richie’s paternal grandmother.

“And what you’re saying is?”

“Every word.” Richie crossed his arms, comically defiant.

“Stir your fudge.”

“Shit.” Richie turned back around, giving the bottom of the pot a quick scrape before returning to methodical stirring. “Anyway,” Richie continued, returning to feigning offense, “the recipe also calls for real butter, which we _brown_ , and it calls for _caster sugar_. Anything with fucking caster sugar in it is homemade.” Eddie decided to allow him that. At least it wasn't microwave fudge, he could give the Tozier Family Recipe that much.

“Anything you brown the butter for is homemade,” Eddie conceded.

“Fucking honestly.” Richie leaned back as Eddie came around him with a candy thermometer, carefully sticking it into the pot. Richie rolled his eyes and turned off the heat, moving the pot to a cool burner.

“Hey,” Eddie protested, reaching to grab his thermometer back.

“You can’t use a thermometer to tell if the fudge is hot enough, you have to just feel it. It’s tradition.” He gave the mixture a quick stir before reaching to peel the seal off the top of a jar of marshmallow fluff.

“Yeah, it looks like you really felt it.” Eddie squeezed at Richie’s bandaged hand, ignoring Richie’s dramatic whine of “ow” and turned to rifle through a drawer for a cake spatula to help with the marshmallow. He mostly just got his hands real sticky, so he gave up and leaned back against the counter to watch Richie work, silently observing as he mixed in the peanut butter chips and measured out the vanilla extract, appearing almost careful in his movements. Eddie’s heart ached at it. A good ache, one he felt so consistently now but he just couldn’t seem to get used to.

“I love you,” he said, because he did and he wanted to say it.

“Nice try,” Richie responded, “but you’re not touching this fudge ‘til we get there tomorrow. Flatter me all you want, though, I love you too.” Eddie didn’t say anything to this, still overwhelmed (as he always was, like, in general, but also anytime Richie said he loved him, god he really was never going to get used to this, was he?) from the rush of open affection, but also the direct reminder of why exactly they were making the Tozier Family Peanut Butter Fudge.

“You doin’ alright, bud?” Richie asked, when he had been quiet too long, turning back toward Eddie after carefully pouring the fudge into a single-use foil baking tin (Eddie personally thought they were too flimsy and could be sharp if you weren’t careful, but god forbid Richie do any more dishes than strictly necessary). Eddie scoffed at him, leaning harder against the kitchen island, crossing his arms.

“Bud?” 

“Babe?”

“Babe?” Eddie scoffed again.

“Eddie-bea—”

“Just you fucking try me, Tozier, see what happens.” Richie put his hands up in defense, the mock look of fear on his face ruined by a giant grin, which Eddie couldn’t help but mirror. Richie winked at him, for no real reason outside of his liking to do it, and stepped forward to stand in front of Eddie, hands on either side of him on the surface of the island.

“Babe it is, then,” he said and leaned in to kiss Eddie on the nose. Eddie wrinkled his nose at that, making Richie let out an honest-to-god _giggle._ “But, no, really, what’s up?”

“That obvious, huh?” Eddie frowned.

“I left like four dirty dishes on the stove and you haven’t said anything, so. C’mon, Eds, let’s hear it.” Eddie looked up at him, and then away from the shine of genuine affection on Richie’s face. He leaned further back to hop up onto the island and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I’m just,” he started (Just what? Scared? Apprehensive? A little fucking bitch?), “nervous. For tomorrow. I know it’s not like a _big deal_ big deal, but—”

“You’ve met my sister before, Eddie,” Richie said, as if Eddie didn’t already know that. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dipshit, I _know_ , but it’s been actual decades, and this is the first time since, well, you know. And I doubt she _really_ remembers me as anything other than her kid brother’s weird friend, and your nephews, god, Rich, I don’t know how to talk to teenagers, and, and— This would be my first holiday with them, and what if they all don’t like me, you _know_ I’m a polarizing person and—”

“A polarizing—? Hey, alright, alright.” Richie put his hands on either side of Eddie’s face, stopping his tirade. “First of all, that’s not going to happen. Second, even if it does, so what? We’ll just do Christmas with the Losers from here out like we did last year.” He moved his hands to Eddie’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “Plus it’s just one holiday.” 

It was true, Eddie had to admit. Just the one holiday of the many he found himself celebrating since reattaching himself to Richie’s life. A lot could be celebrated with the Losers, but they all knew it wasn’t feasible to meet up for everything, though they tried. Richie’s parents were never much of an issue, having packed everything up when Dr. Tozier retired to be the kind of old folks who roamed the southwest in an RV most of the year. So they did seder with Stan and Patty, since Maggie was collecting rocks or something in the Mojave and his sister didn’t celebrate anymore, and Went had dropped Catholicism hard when he stopped trying to be a “pillar of the community,” so they fended for themselves for Christmas too.

Richie had thought it was about time the two of them meet up with his sister for the first time as a _couple_ , and so now they faced a two hour drive to outer Milwaukee in the morning. And he just _knew_ he was going to need to drive, because Richie, as much as he loved the man, could not be reliably counted on to remember to pay tolls. Eddie was spiraling back into his thoughts again, but was dragged out of it when Richie massaged at his shoulders again.

“Plus,” Richie continued, “you’ll get to meet my brother-in-law. He’s the worst, you’re going to love him. He loves the Packers and sells insurance, that’s all you need to know.”

“I don’t—” 

“I know, I know, but I need _someone_ to occupy Scott while we’re there because I lose days off my life anytime he speaks to me. Slurps my life-force right down like he does a bottle of Michelob Ultra. Disgusting. How Carly gave up the Tozier name for _that_ , I’ll never know.”

“Love, maybe?” Eddie asked.

“Apparently. Twenty years strong,” Richie said, wiggling a fist around. Eddie chuckled and moved forward to drape his arms across Richie’s shoulders. 

“You that attached to your last name?” he asked, not meaning anything by it, honest. _Honest._

“Eh, I guess,” Richie said. “What, aren’t you?” Eddie scoffed again (he had to stop doing that, he’d been just coming off of a head cold and his throat really didn’t love it).

“Attached to _Kaspbrak?_ ” he asked. Richie shrugged at him, jostling Eddie’s arms. “It just reminds me of my mother, really. And the dad I didn’t really know. God, and _Myra_. I told you she kept the name, right? Honestly, it might actually be more hers than mine at this point. Like the house,” he chuckled, humorless.

“Right,” Richie said, “let’s put the kibosh on divorce talk.” He fell silent, looking Eddie up and down as best he could in front of the kitchen island. “You really… hmm,” he stopped just as soon as he started. Whelp. Eddie was semi-debating saying something. Something particular. Something interpretable, that he was kind of hoping might be interpreted. But also kind of hoping wouldn’t. He was going to say it. He wasn’t going to say it. He was going to— 

“I like yours, though,” Eddie said, willing himself to not break eye contact as the words left his mouth, unsure if he actually gave himself permission to say them, but saying them nonetheless. Richie froze, Eddie could feel Richie’s shoulders tense up under his arms and he was overcome by the need to jump off the countertop and flee the city (or even the country, he had a passport, he could grab it really quick on the way out, and even then surely it can’t be that hard to get a work visa, he’d been told he was highly employable, he has an out if it comes to it, is it going to come to it?).

Richie coughed, rubbed at his face, and coughed some more. Eddie didn’t know what that meant, but he stayed put, still caged in by Richie’s body.

“I,” Richie started, after collecting himself. “Are you— I mean— Eds, I— If you’re just joking can— or, I, uh, I— Shit. Fuck. Shit, I, uh—I,” he coughed again, taking a second to collect himself as Eddie just watched. “Are you, um—and please don’t fuck with me here, alright—are you implying, or, um, saying what I think you are?” Eddie shrugged and Richie looked like he was about to scream.

“I mean,” Eddie said, quickly, “I don’t mean, like, right away or anything but it’s something to, uh, something to think about. Something to think about.”

“Something to chew on,” Richie rephrased and Eddie nodded at him. Richie grinned.

“So, this isn’t the whole thing,” Eddie clarified. “When I do it, it’s gonna be better than this. I’ll, like, plan it and shit. I’ll actually, you know, say the words.” Richie sniffled and Eddie reached a hand back to cup his face, running his thumb across his cheek. He didn’t know if Richie was actually going to cry, but it was hardly rare these days, so it didn’t hurt to be prepared. Richie chuckled, breath coming thick.

“You sure you don’t wanna marry Mike and annul it real quick? Pretty sure you get the third marriage free, so,” he joked. Eddie leveled a look at him, but brought his other hand up to hold Richie’s face like Richie had done to him earlier.

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think I’d give Mike up for you.”

“Understood,” Richie nodded, “I’d leave you in a _second_ if Mike gave me, like, even a hint of interest.” Snorting, Eddie lightly slapped at Richie’s cheek.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he said. They just looked at each other for a minute, quiet and comfortable in a way that he’d never have expected it to ever be. Eddie pulled himself off the counter and rested his head on Richie’s shoulder, letting himself be enveloped in Richie’s gangly (even at his age, what a mess of a human being, Eddie loved him _so much_ ) arms. 

Richie spoke up again after a few minutes of rare, companionable quiet, saying: 

“Do you really… do you really want to?” Eddie nodded against Richie’s shoulder and felt himself be held tighter in response. 

“I know it’s not, like, official,” Richie continued, “but can I tell anyone? Like, can I tell Stan at least?” Eddie pulled away to look Richie in the eye.

“Stan? He’ll just tell Mike. And you know they’re the gossipiest bitches we know.” Richie giggled, agreeing.

“Okay,” he tried again, “Bev?” Eddie shook his head again.

“She’ll tell Ben and Ben will tell anyone who asks, he’s an open safe, Rich.” Richie groaned.

“Why do our friends suck at at secrets so much?” he asked. “We kept all the clown shit under wraps through high school, you’d think we could pull off something fucking normal.” He pulled Eddie closer, still visibly wracking his brain for _someone_ he could tell.

“Oh!” he said, pulling back suddenly. “Patty?” he asked. Eddie considered it.

“Okay,” he said. “Fine. But make her promise not to tell Stan, you know how they are.” Richie laughed.

“All that honest and open communication,” he said, miming gagging. Eddie pushed him back, but grabbed ahold of his hand and pulled him out of the kitchen in the direction of the living room.

“ABC Family time?” Richie asked, practically skipping behind Eddie as they headed out of the room. “Are you gonna try and convince me that _It’s a Wonderful Life_ isn’t a Christmas movie again?” He lowered himself onto the couch, spreading out and pulling Eddie to lay atop him.

“It isn’t,” Eddie said, settling in to his spot sprawled on top of Richie. “Like, one scene takes place at Christmas. The rest is just detailing one guy’s really sad life where he never gets to leave his hometown.”

“Oh my god,” Richie said, shifting to sit up a bit. “Mike was totally the George Bailey of Derry, right? Like he just didn’t get to leave and really wanted to just, like, travel.” Eddie shook his head.

“Barely,” he said. “If that’s all they have in common. Anyway, the only sure one is that you’re Uncle Billy.” Richie gasped, clutching at his chest.

“Fuck you, I’m Uncle Billy,” he said. “If I’m Uncle Billy then you’re Mr. Potter.”

“Bullshit, Rich, now you’re just being mean.”

“Oh, for sure.” Richie tried again, saying: “No, you’re Mary but only in the alternate universe where someone who looks like a 1946 Donna Reed somehow ends up an _old maid_ just because she didn’t marry Jimmy fucking Stewart.” Eddie allowed himself his own honest-to-god giggle at that. 

“You gonna be my Jimmy Stewart, then?” he asked, nuzzling into Richie’s chest. Richie pulled him closer still.

“If only to save you from your fate as a spinster, baby, if only.” Eddie reached up a hand to push at Richie’s face, but just let it rest once it actually hit skin, running his hand along the growing stubble covering Richie’s jawline. 

“Keep dreaming, Tozier,” he said, letting his hand drop. Richie’s hand found itself atop Eddie’s head, fingers carding through his hair.

“As long as you’ll let me, _Tozier_ ,” Richie said, and Eddie let him.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this semi at work and semi vaguely drunk in my bedroom (in a need to finish it on time) while i should be wrapping presents, so i'll probably be editing this over time  
> i hc richie as half-Jewish. i am not Jewish, so let me know if i messed anything up in my small mention of it
> 
> also, here's a peanut butter fudge recipe, it's not Nana Tozier's, but it *is* mine: 
> 
> 1-1/2 sticks butter  
> 2-3/4 cups superfine sugar (regular granulated is fine, but it takes longer to melt and is less sexy to pour)  
> 1 - 5oz. can evaporated milk  
> 1 10 oz. bag of peanut butter chips (reese's usually but there are no real rules)  
> 1 - 7 oz. can marshmallow creme  
> 1 tsp. vanilla extract
> 
> 1\. Melt the butter in a saucepan on medium heat, cook until browned (butter will have little dark flakes in it and smell fucking *divine*)  
> 2\. Add the evaporated milk and sugar and stir until well blended.  
> 3\. Bring to a rolling boil and keep stirring. Cook for 4-5 minutes or until it just feels correct.  
> 4\. Remove from heat.  
> 5\. Stir in marshmallow creme. Stir until well blended.  
> 6\. Add vanilla. Stir.  
> 7\. Add peanut butter chips and stir until blended.  
> Pour into 9" x 9" pan and try not to dig your hands in and eat it immediately.
> 
> happy holidays, folks!
> 
> title from barnacles by (guess who?) laura stevenson
> 
> you folks can catch me on tumblr @pfaubrot but i’m not like. super active there


End file.
